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poems of place

by Indigo Tempesta

sometimes I was in bars.
other times I dreamt of Europe –
dreaming it was somehow better.
sometimes I was writing. sometimes thinking.
thinking that place is where art originates.
that between place and place there is a boundary
over which having crossed, love springs up.

the pure place, not flowers, not even junk transcendent,
not gutter trash or flame. it is the place I looked for,
there, you, him, I, credulous bodies places as well,
motherhood, home.

in writing I had sought and clawed at that boundary,
had heard voices not mine acknowledging in poundian flutter.
voice is voice; the secret that pound was wrenching place
out of disembodied America, whereas I was tricking it out of drinking,
out of print, out of creeping borderless desire.


Posted on 09/25/2007
Copyright © 2021 Indigo Tempesta

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Joe Cramer on 09/25/07 at 03:38 PM


Posted by Jim Benz on 09/25/07 at 06:48 PM

ditto to what Joe says. I wish I could say something intelligent in response, but my brain's on empty. reading this poem gives it a jumpstart though. very nice Erica.

Posted by Jared Fladeland on 03/08/09 at 07:52 PM

That place is also the same meeting point between conscious and unconscious, lsd dreams versus detox nightmares, and idealism meeting realism. Anne Bogart talks about how art can be compared to fire meeting air, or water falling through air. We are attracted to opposites colliding

Posted by George Hoerner on 05/21/09 at 02:08 PM

Congratulations on POTD for 'poems of place', Indigo. You obviously have spent much more time understanding mr pound than I ever have. I must get back into him. Again Congratulations.

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